


We Are Not Now That Strength

by orphan_account



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: And Now For Something Completely Different, Bathing/Washing, Everyone Needs A Hug, Family Issues, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Force Ghost(s), Force-Sensitive Jyn Erso, Gen, Napping, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Public Nudity, Shyness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:13:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22432417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The woman sits - not floats, sits - atop the edge of the pool where the ripples have dissipated.With not a stitch of clothing on her... less then corporeal form.BB-8 beeps shrilly and spins his head a solid 180 to stare at a very interesting flower. Rey suddenly wishes her Jedi training had never included swimming lessons.Or: BB-8 is the best sleeping partner, Rey is a billion percent done with everything after literally dying to kill Palpatine, and Jyn just wants someone to remember her.
Relationships: BB-8 & Rey, Jyn Erso & Rey, Rey & Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Kudos: 7





	We Are Not Now That Strength

**“The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.“ - L.P** **Hartley**

The crackle of many lightning bolts and failing heartbeats and distant explosions from on high still ring in her ears, like the clang of distant bells, when she finally manages to land Luke’s X-Wing on solid ground. 

She literally felt her own heart stop mere hours before, right before her last breath left her lips; not embedding the X-Wing in a tree feels like a major victory at this point.

The familiar, comforting scents and feelings of fighter engine plasma, sticky oil, cool breezes and rain splattered pine trees are as buried as Ben’s lightsaber at the bottom of that turbulent ocean tomb; pungent burnt flesh, blood, and dust that seems to have settled on her skin, in her chest, in her soul. Her limbs are lead lined.

These are what she can smell, can feel.

Along with a sense of creeping madness, and newborn legs as she manages to stumble down the ladder and into the sandwich that Poe, Finn and her all form. 

Amid the tears spilling down their cheeks and shouts of her name and blood pooling downward from the gash in her head, she senses a presence, very faint. 

The hug feels like an eternity, and she feels like it would take that long to wrap her arms around them all. Body in revolt, lacking the strength to do even that. At least it’s a comforting warmth.

“I need a wash,” the exhaustion in her voice has a solidity to it, and it’s weight finally breaks the circle apart. The two of them and C-3PO, with their emotions shifting on their faces, silent sentinels as she slowly limps into the deep, mist choked woods. 

One leg, hobbled, like Ben’s has been, when he found the strength he so desperately needed to repent. To bring her back after he’d been thrown into that gaping fissure.

The dragon slain, the race won, the ship come round to port, but only BB-8 follows her. The rest are too tired in spirit to follow her.

* * *

It takes a long time to get to the pool. It would’ve normally taken her a whopping five minutes. But these are not normal times.

Her legs give out just as the clearing comes into view, and BB-8 beeps and squawks high-pitched binary at her, gently rolling into her side to poke at her until she heaves herself back into an upright position.

”Don’t worry,” she says in a rasp, rubbing his domed head. Dirt lays congealed atop her dusty skin as the pool spreads out in view before her eyes.

She channels the Force, rising out of her shoes, feet lightly leaving the chains of planetary gravity. Robes drifting, falling, bare pale skin exposed to the mist and cool water. 

Leaving her clothes strewn across giant rocks, willing the water to her Force presence, legs cross-cross to cover her intimate areas from any prying eyes. One arm draped over her chest, muscles stiff.

Blood, sticky and hot, streaking down her cheek. The faint scent of Finn’s flight jacket, strange guttural birdsong from atop nearby trees. Water dripping off the ends of her hair.

BB-8 beeping happily, rolling on the water by the shore with her guiding thoughts. Swiveling his head to avoid immodest glances. The monument to the fallen at the far end of the pool. Ivory and stone, countless bronze plaques bearing countless names lost since before she was born on Jakku.

One name atop them all, etched in midnight black, a wreath over the letters. 

Jyn Erso: Daughter. Traitor. Soldier. Spy.

The Rebellion’s Maddest Dog in a whole pack of them. Leader of Rogue One. Progenitor of the Rebellion’s decisive blow against her unwanted inheritance, the Emperors first Death Star. 

The presence from earlier is more apparent now. The voice, thick with some foreign accent, gently poking at Rey’s mental barrier. Whispering her name.

Rey stretches her legs, hands clasped together, willing the entity to reveal itself to her. Deep breaths, feeling outward with the Force, like an extension of her arms.

And almost falls into the pool when she opens her eyes.

The woman sits - _not floats, sits_ \- atop the edge of the pool where the ripples have dissipated from BB-8’s rolling around.

With not a stitch of clothing on her... less then corporeal form.

BB-8 senses a presence, stopping mid-roll to look at the newcomer.

He beeps a shrill apology, rolling onto land and spinning his head a solid 180 to stare at a very interesting flower. Rey suddenly wishes her Jedi training had never included swimming lessons

”You know, it takes quite a bit of effort to maintain this position,” Jyn says dryly. Arching one eyebrow, peering with wide, dark-rimmed eyes to look at Rey’s battered face. 

Rey averts her eyes, wondering if she flips upside down, can she channel the Force to keep her head underwater and her airways clear without drowning? The thought becomes more tempting when Jyn stands to her full height, feet leaving no ripples as she walks towards Rey. 

Was being prudish a curse for all cycles of Jedi Masters to quietly suffer through? ‘ _How much running and gunning did a woman have to do to get a toned stomach like that?’_

Rey feels her cheeks burn, as Jyn ghosts her chin with the faintest sensation of her fingers touching, forcing them to look eye to eye.

”The Mad Dog finally meets the Last Jedi Knight. And a Palpatine to boot?” Jyn whistles, a smug grin stretching across her face. “And I thought needing to have daddy issues to be enlisted in the Rebellion was just a cruel joke on my part.” 

A quiet laugh echoes around them.

Rey opens her mouth, closes it, turns to mouth “help me?” at BB-8; he shakes in place and beeps out the binary equivalent of a stern dad telling his kid to say hi to her new neighbor. 

* * *

Rey etches a finger in the grooves and etched letters of Jyn’s name on the stone. Jyn has dropped the snark, the Great White Shark smile, and looks rather small, one hand rubbing at her mother’s Kyber Crystal hanging around her neck. Looking like Rey and Finn and all of them are now; perceived as leading figures in the final Children's Crusade.

”Should I go look for it?” Rey asks quietly, finger waving at said crystal. Jyn pauses, looking at her with a quizzical expression. 

“I could put it in my saber...” the words die in her throat, and Rey feels like she’s crossed some unspoken boundary. Shamelessness in her nude state is one thing, accidentally implying an exploration to go grave robbing is a rather roundabout way to joining the Dark Side.

She can hear Luke’s distant, exacerbated tone in her mind. Using all this Force energy on these little things suddenly hits her like a brick to the face, and she turns around, willing her robes and shoes back on, the heat radiating onto cold skin. 

A headache starts to form, and she floats back toward the sanctity of her private room at the Base, BB-8 rolling merrily along, flower jammed into an open compartment. 

* * *

She strips off her robes, literally falling into the mattress. The sheets pool over her back, BB-8 floating onto the bed and stubbornly moving the blanket till it’s up to Rey’s shoulders. BB-8 gives a sad beep, looking down at his flower. Rey smiles, gesturing with her finger and moves the flower and some water into a long unused wineglass.

BB-8 beeps out a thank you, and extends a tiny metal hand to wrap around one of Rey’s fingers. 

“It’s alright,” she shushes him, as he powers down, the heat from his frame warding off the chill of the bunker’s AC. A tiny headlamp rising to keep out the encroaching shadows of dusk. 

Her whole body feels like dead weight, and as her eyes grow heavy, she can make out Jyn’s ethereal presence, faint and flickering like dodgy candlelight.

“At least there’d be something solid of me that people can remember,” Jyn finally says, and Rey can feel some distant pull in the back of her mind. Like a compass flickering between points to mark the correct path.

Jyn laughs, at once sounding both raw and melodious. Her anchor out of the past, a Crystal for forging a war weapon, as tribute for her martyrdom and that of her father, countless in their multitudes towards dismantling the present for a future unknown. 

“I just hope it’s a black crystal.” Jyn murmurs, a ghost of a kiss pressed to Rey’s temple, as Rey sees her bow and dissipate into the ether of the Force. Slowly, her breathing goes quiet and her dreams begin to go beyond this too long fought war.

‘ _May the Force be with you, Jyn Erso.’_


End file.
